The Way We Live Now has been described as a work of bitterness and disillusionment, but the tone of the book is not one of bitterness. It is certainly satirical; but one could believe that the character of Melmotte stepped in and ran away with the story, just as he swept through London society in 1873 (the year it was written—remember "Now" in the title). One would be hard pressed to say that The Way We Live Now heralded a precipitous darkening of Trollope's view of the world. He did continue to explore the folly of mankind in the novels that followed—The Prime Minister, with the appearance of Ferdinand Lopez, an ambitious, unscrupulous foreigner like Melmotte; Is He Popenjoy? featuring the arch villain the Marquis of Brotherton; The American Senator; The Duke's Children; and John Caldigate. The more Trollope experienced the world, the more targets for his satirical pen appeared.
The Way We Live Now is replete with such targets. Likeable characters are lacking. Two exceptions are Mr. Brehgert, the Jew who tolerates the frank anti-Semitism of Victorian England with saintly perseverance; and John Crumb, "the dealer in meal and pollard at Bungay," who loves Ruby Ruggles and thrashes the useless young Sir Felix Carbury when he assaults her. (Pollard is a fine protein-rich feed supplement for farm animals; it is a byproduct from the milling of wheat for flour.)
Melmotte is introduced as a foreign element that intrudes on English society in the fourth chapter, in which we learn that he is the giver of a great ball. Having just arrived in London from Paris about two years earlier, he admitted that his wife was a foreigner—"an admission that was necessary as she spoke very little English." Though Augustus Melmotte, Esq., spoke his "native" language fluently, he had "an accent which betrayed at least a long expatriation." His daughter Marie "spoke English well, but as a foreigner," and had been born "out of England"—perhaps in New York or Paris.
Only a foreigner could have done what Melmotte did. It is likely that Trollope, who amused himself and us with his observations of the English "as they lived then," did not think that a native-born Englishman could have disrupted society in such a way. This foreigner came in with an ambivalent attitude toward the English. He thought they were gullible enough to buy his schemes, but an essential part of his ambition was his desire to obtain a position of great prominence in English society. He would buy a country place, Pickering, from Adolphus Longstaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and he would remodel it so that he could be a country gentleman. He would get himself elected to the House of Commons. He would obtain a noble title—perhaps a baronetcy. His daughter would marry Lord Nidderdale. His wealth and his connections would bring all these things.
The traditional English life that Trollope so revered was crumbling. Adolphus Longstaffe cannot afford to maintain the social schedule that his wife and children enjoy, and the sale of family property offers an expedient solution. Sir Roger Carbury strives to maintain his country place, but he finds himself powerless to marry and carry on his family line. He has set his heart on marrying his cousin Hetta Carbury when she comes of age, but the young girl has little interest in marrying an older man. Hetta's mother, Lady Carbury, attempts to charm editors and other writers into praising and publishing her books so that she can save herself and her worthless son, Sir Felix Carbury, from financial ruin.
Which of these can the reader like? None of the above. And there are more. Paul Montague is a young man who has had to leave Oxford because of some unfortunate rows, and he has spent three years in California, losing his fortune in unsuccessful business ventures and becoming engaged to a woman who may or may not have shot her husband in Oregon. He thinks he can escape her by returning to England, but she pursues him. Like Pinocchio, he falls into bad company (the Beargarden Club in London). Hetta Carbury (to whom Sir Roger has unsuccessfully proposed marriage) falls in love with the young man, little more than a hobbledehoy who consistently gets in over his head, whatever the venture. Yet it is Paul who is the only one to attempt to ask questions at the board meetings of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and he is the first to discover that Melmotte had been diverting its funds to such personal uses as rebuilding the Longstaffe house in the country.
Such is The Way We Live Now. The country is going to the dogs, led by a foreign Pied Piper with a strange accent. Here is his introductory description:
Mr. Melmotte was a big man with large whiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on a harsh vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his presence unless attracted to him by some internal consideration. He was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful in his business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled.
It appears that had not Melmotte appeared, someone in London would have invented him. As it happened, his great project was actually invented by Hamilton K. Fisker, the young American who had met Paul Montague in California and made a partnership with him. It was Fisker who concocted the idea of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway and sold the idea to Melmotte. The presentation was brief. Melmotte and Fisker understood each other. The documents referred not at all to future profits to the railway or to its benefit to society; they emphasized rather the appeal of such stock to the "speculating world."
Melmotte undertook the chairmanship of the Board of Directors in England, and he very quickly found willing buyers of shares, hopes, and dreams. Like Professor Harold Hill in The Music Man, "When he dances, the piper pays him." But when he makes his speech to his directors, it is one that would not do for BBC. In its production, David Suchet is Melmotte larger than life, full of vitality, projecting himself with a powerful personality. Trollope's text would not have been such good theater; in it we see a man who is not eloquent, mostly looking at his plate. His eager audience, however, cheers him "to the echo."